The man who hated summer
smoothes on sweet scented lotions;
his body glistens like a waxed table.

Jobless and listless, he soaks in
lemon yellow afternoons
and smiles at the irony;
the season he's never sought
is the only one he has.

Now he never reads a paper
or greets a neighbor
or mows the lawn.

Instead he simmers on a chaise lounge
in a nest of mosquitoes and heat,
his flesh taut like sutures,
his eyes drawn shut against the sun.

Darkening under a paper white sky,
he holds his breath
while the phone rings and rings and rings.